Mourning Morning
Once a year, the ocean and I meet.
I tell him about my troubles, as he caresses my feet.
I tell him all that's happened since I've seen him last,
of all the good things in my life,
but also of loved ones who have passed.
I talk of people I had a year ago
that I've since lost,
how broken my soul feels without them,
how my heart has been tumbled and tossed.
He gives me shells that have been through the same,
broken, emptied, now polished,
and they still remain.
The sea oats nod with empathy.
"Yes, yes," they whisper as I walk by.
The seagulls hover around,
and sometimes with me cry.
Moody clouds blanket both me and the sky.
The ocean calls out,
"Hey! Look at me!
I'm deep, and I'm blue."
I see that he manages it beautifully,
and I know I can too.
When I get it all poured out
and again am feeling brave,
I call out, "See you next year!"
He says, "I'll be here, dear,"
and waves and waves and waves.
(c) T. Sigler 2019
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